


I Moustache You To Get That Thing Away From My Arse

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, M/M, Mpreg, Mustaches, Rimming, moustache
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moustache.<br/>The moustache.<br/>The moustache had to go.<br/>For some unknown reason, the gods had forsaken Sherlock and left him to fend off John's insanity alone, and without any kind of guidance from above John had ever so carefully, meticulously, lovingly<br/>grown<br/>a<br/>moustache.<br/>And he'd had the audacity to grow the lip rug in Sherlock's seventh month of pregnancy, when Sherlock's hormones wanted nothing more than John's mouth on his.<br/>But even as he huffed, flounced, sighed, writhed, wanked himself off in the bathroom, Sherlock's rational, un-hormone-riddled mind wanted only one thing:<br/>The moustache<br/>gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Moustache You To Get That Thing Away From My Arse

**Author's Note:**

> We had to. We had to. We had to write a fic about the moustache.  
> Another RP, gone terribly, horribly right.  
> Enjoy.

The moustache. 

The _moustache._

The moustache _had to go_.

For some unknown reason, the gods had forsaken Sherlock and left him to fend off John's insanity alone, and without any kind of guidance from above John had ever so carefully, meticulously, lovingly

grown

a

moustache.

And he'd had the audacity to grow the lip rug in Sherlock's seventh month of pregnancy, when Sherlock's hormones wanted nothing more than John's mouth on his. 

But even as he huffed, flounced, sighed, writhed, wanked himself off in the bathroom, Sherlock's rational, un-hormone-riddled mind wanted only one thing: 

The moustache

gone.

 

* * *

 

John turned the corner in the hallway, humming to himself. He rubbed a hand over his face, a few fingers stroking over the thick hair on his lip. He'd just finished his morning cup of tea and a cinnamon scone, and he wanted to be sure his new moustache was properly groomed and clean. 

 

Okay, so he was a bit proud of his newly grown lip hair. John had never tried growing a moustache before (aside from longing for any sort of facial hair in his adolescence), and figured he'd give it a try. Overall, he was happy with the result, the way the dark blond hair brought something new to his face. It was _exciting_.

 

John stopped outside the bathroom door and paused, his brow furrowing as he heard small grunts and gasps coming from inside. He blinked. "Sherlock? You all right in there?"

 

The sound of Sherlock's hand on his prick, rapid thrusts into the ringed fist and short gasps of breath nearly obscured John's voice from Sherlock's range of hearing. 

 

Oh, fuck. 

 

Sherlock froze, a groan barely contained as his hips stilled and his cock throbbed unhappily in his hand. He took a few deep breaths and nodded. 

 

"Yes, John, fine. Do you…need the loo?" he asked, his eyes rolling into the back of his head when he shifted and his now-loose fingers brushed the sensitive skin of his prick. 

 

Of course. John had just finished breakfast, he'd be wanting to properly clean and groom the damned soup strainer. Sherlock clapped a free hand over his mouth and sighed frustratedly through his nose.

 

John put his hands in his pockets and frowned, his flavour saver tilting down at the corners with the action. "Uh, no, just... I'll just use your vanity." John began padding toward the bedroom before turning and looking back to the door. "D'you need anything, love? A, er... a laxative or..." He trailed off awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck, tongue trailing the fringe of his push broom. "You know that's not uncommon, being... constipated during pregnancy."

 

Sherlock sighed in relief. John thought he was constipated. God, yes, this was an excuse he could use if John's nose neighbour's unfortunate existence persisted. "I'll be fine, John, give me a few more minutes and I'll be out. Nearly-" Sherlock added a grunt, for effect - "finished." 

 

He heard John pad away and waited for the door to their bedroom to close, but just as Sherlock resumed stroking he sighed. His erection had entirely waned, and along with it his desire to come. He'd been so close…if he'd managed an orgasm, he might've been able to look John in the eye for the next few hours. As it was, he doubted he'd be able to bear even the thought of the horrific mouth brow without wanting to vomit. 

 

Sherlock tucked himself back into his pants, pulled up his pyjama bottoms and washed his hands before resignedly exiting the loo. Maybe, if he was very lucky this time, John would look into the mirror and see how terrible he looked with a dirt squirrel, and would reemerge clean-shaven.

 

John sat in front of Sherlock's vanity, that was usually used for the man's disguises, and ran a comb through his beloved moustache, stroking it to smooth out the stragglers. He smiled when he saw Sherlock enter the room in the reflection of the mirror, and continued grooming his elegant facial hair.

 

"All right?" He asked gently, turning a brief moment to give Sherlock an understanding smile, his caterpillar curling. He put down the comb and admired himself a moment longer before standing and making his way over to Sherlock, a hand snaking around his lower back. "I was thinking maybe we could have a nice night in," John practically purred, lipping at Sherlock's neck.

 

"Get…that…" Sherlock huffed and inched away from John's cookie duster, skin prickling as the coarse hairs tickled his neck. He huffed, managed to dissuade John from brushing that damned booger broom against his neck through a series of increasingly evasive but passive-aggressive maneuvers, and finally sighed. "A night in would be…fine," he said warily. "What did you have in mind?"

 

The unspoken "anything that involves your butt-duster anywhere near my genitals or erogenous zones is spectacularly off-limits" hung ignored in the air.

 

Anything unspoken definitely went unrecognised on John's end, mistaking Sherlock's fluster and pulling away as oversensitivity. John grinned and licked his hairy lip, taking another step forward and sliding his other hand to lace them both behind Sherlock's back, right above his arse. "Maybe," John began huskily, "we can spend the evening in bed. I can make you dinner and bring it to you, and...we can get lost in each other." He headed for Sherlock's neck again, his lip foliage rustling against the profound curve of his husband's jaw. "It's been so long, Sherlock. We haven't shagged in _weeks_."

 

"Yes, I know…since you grew the moustache," Sherlock said pointedly, and bristled as John's bristles tickled his jaw. He wondered how terrible it would be to have sex with John while the terrible mouth merkin was still in place, weighed the pros (sex) versus the cons (ill-placed eyebrow) and sighed. "An evening in bed sounds…enticing."

 

John frowned when Sherlock remarked on his moustache, and he touched it, stroking it as if it were offended. He wondered if there was a connection, but Sherlock's concession calmed him. He smiled and slid his hands down, down until he hand his fingers splayed across a supple bum. "Does it now?" John's throat rumbled, and he pressed against Sherlock until his round belly was pressed against his flat one. He guided Sherlock to the bed and grinned before helping his mate to lie down, and crawling over top of him. "I've missed this," John whispered, before crashing his grass grin into Sherlock's soft lips.

 

Sherlock spluttered and tried to recover from the fur ambush, ducking his head to mouth at John's shoulder instead. He didn't want to hurt John's ego by outright demanding he shave off the lip llama, but at the same time he was beginning to doubt that John would catch on through sly words and covert actions alone. "I've missed it too, John. It's been weeks since your moustache came in, and I haven't so much as touched you in that time." Honestly, how much thicker could he lay the word-Nair on?

 

John didn't seem to hear what Sherlock was saying, only comprehending that his mate missed having sex as much as he did. John threw off his jumper and slipped Sherlock's t-shirt up over his belly, pressing his hands to it as the little one inside stirred. "God, look at you. So beautiful," he hummed breathlessly before kissing Sherlock with an open mouth; he wanted to _taste_ him. Everywhere. And he would make a point to put his mouth everywhere he could on his fertile mate.

 

Sherlock tried to focus on John's mouth, and not on the moustache, he really did. He wanted to enjoy the contact he'd so missed in the past few weeks. From certain angles, the face fur didn't brush his skin, but those angles were few and far between. 

 

Somehow he managed to lose himself in the so-very-much-missed sensation of skin on skin, but as John ducked and began to kiss his neck, shoulders, and tender breasts, the blasted broom got in the way. More often than not, Sherlock ended up forcefully pushing John away, only to have the man reattach with vigour. 

 

Instead of getting hard, like such an act would usually do, Sherlock found himself - if possible - even more flaccid than usual. He just couldn't get it up, not while Hitler was macking on his stomach. "John-" he started in protest, pushing the doctor back so he could see his face.

 

John finally glanced up after having licked a stripe up the dark line of Sherlock's belly, and pressed a kiss to his navel before raising his head. "All right? Not being too rough, am I?" He asked, concerned. He was being rigorous, but he didn't think he was doing anything to _hurt_ Sherlock.

 

"Not too rough, no, it's just…" _The third eyebrow you've got growing over your lip,_ Sherlock wanted to shout. _It's hideous, it tickles, it feels strange, it HAS TO GO._ Instead, Sherlock bit his lip and put on a pitiful expression. "I'm very sensitive right now, and your moustache is…rough. Almost painful, in some places." The pregnant Omega whined _just_ a bit, for effect.

 

John's mouth formed an 'o' in understanding, and then frowned. "Oh. I see. Um." John looked thoughtful, brushing his fingers along his lip pelt, as if trying to understand what it must feel like on Sherlock's sensitive skin. "I'll try to be more careful. Sorry about that," he said with a tender smile. "Just let me know if I scratch you." John then proceeded, pulling down Sherlock's pyjama bottoms and pants carefully, and wrapped a hand around his cock, ringing his fingers around and twitching them just enough. "Didn't mean to irritate your precious skin, love."

 

"Oh, f-" Sherlock managed to catch himself before letting what could be a horrifically misinterpreted expletive fall from his lips. He'd damn near spelled it out for the man - _get. rid. of. your. moustache_ -and still he persevered! And now, oh god, he was going to suck Sherlock's cock with that lip blanket scratching his skin with every movement. 

 

If Sherlock hadn't been such a good actor, he mightn't have been able to make it as far as he did. As it stood, however, his act could only go for so long. He was barely half-erect in John's mouth when an errant brush of the bristly lip bush became the straw that broke the camel's back. 

 

Sherlock withdrew from John's mouth with a gasp of relief, closing his eyes for a brief second and steeling himself for the oncoming confrontation. "I'm sorry, John, I just can't do it, not with the moustache. It's too much, the thing has to-" he looked down and saw John with a coy look on his face, rather than the expected shock and confusion. "What?" he asked, putting his hands on his hips.

 

John smirked, his hands massaging the concave between Sherlock's belly and hips. "I know what this is about, Sherlock." He said, his moustache comically twitching up like a cliché cartoon villain's. "I know what you were really doing in the loo. That constipation bit was just me taking the piss." John softly pressed his lips to the underside of Sherlock's protuberance, and looked up at him with dark eyes. "I know you think you're unattractive like this. That's not bloody true in the slightest. You're fucking gorgeous, like... a god of fertility or something. So hot..." His tongue trailed down to the line of pubic hair above his mate's flaccid cock. "You don't need to sneak off to wank, Sherlock. I'll gladly take care of you." John sucked on his cock for a brief moment before popping off, and then spreading Sherlock's legs further with careful hands, and leaning in to lap at his mate's puckered hole, breaching inside.

 

No. No, no, no! He wasn't getting it! God, how dense was the man Sherlock had (apparently mistakenly) chosen to spend the rest of his life with? If the brushes of John's damned stache on his cock hadn't been bad enough, they were now assaulting what could potentially be the most sensitive part of his body, and Sherlock couldn't take it. Couldn't, couldn't, couldn't…

 

Sherlock wriggled away, bent (with no small degree of difficulty) to pick up his pants and trousers, and retreated to the corner of the room. John looked at him, confusion writ all over his features, and Sherlock took a deep breath before beginning. 

 

"I've been trying to be nice, John, I really have. I've told you it looked…decent, put up with your incessant grooming and preening, suffered through this much foreplay with your moustache, but this is the end. I'm going to spell it out for you. 

 

The moustache. Needs to go. You look like a sixty-year-old man, and I can't hardly stand to kiss you with that mouthbrow tickling my lips. Shave it off _now_. I won't have sex with you until you do, and if you have it on when I go into labour, you're going to have to wait outside the delivery room because I will not have that horrific third eyebrow as the first thing our child sees when he or she enters the world."

 

John's eyes widened in surprise at Sherlock's outburst. He... didn't like his moustache? John ran his fingers over it, still staring at Sherlock, and then blinked at the man. "I... didn't know you felt that strongly about it." John sat cross-legged on the bed and looked defeated, dropping his hand away from his lip tickler. He sighed heavily and rubbed at his shoulder, his eyes lowered. "Only reason I grew it was because..." John trailed off, looking a bit embarrassed. "I thought it would make me look more... assertive. You know, like an Alpha should? I dunno, Sherlock, I... all this, with the baby, it just. I don't know, I felt inadequate, and not ready, and I thought the moustache would help me feel... more confident, I guess." He sighed again and gave an unenthusiastic crooked smile. "Only worked for about two days." John shook his head, and met Sherlock's gaze again. "I'm sorry. You should have told me it looked bloody awful in the first place, and I would have shaved it. I thought you _liked_ it, that's why I kept it. I'm sorry, love. It..." He took a shuddering breath. "You're right. It... has to go."

 

"You do look like an Alpha, John. Just an older, slightly paedophilic one." Sherlock tied his pyjama bottoms and took a few steps closer to his mate. "Shave it off. You'll feel much more confident after, because you'll be getting a leg over as often as you want. I just couldn't bring myself to bed Stalin. It was tickly." _And ugly,_ Sherlock thought, but withheld this time. He'd made his point. Rubbing it in, while satisfying, would not help the situation. 

 

"I'm not a pedophile!" John blurted frustratedly. He huffed, looking at himself in the vanity, and silently conceded with Sherlock. He was right, he would feel much better once he could bed his mate, and his mate wouldn't be appalled by his facial hair.

 

"I'll even help you shave it. And then, as a reward, you can do to me whatever you'd like." Sherlock smiled reassuringly. "I'm ready whenever you are."

 

"All right, all right," John muttered, slipping out of bed and walking to sit in front of the vanity. As Sherlock went to retrieve the electric razor, John spent a moment, stroking his hard work, a frown on his face. "Sorry, mate. Sherlock says no. Someday," he said longingly.

 

He gave Sherlock a small smile when he returned, licking his lips at the promise of getting to do as he pleased to his Omega, and becoming distracted by the slight sway of Sherlock's hips (which was really due to the waddle, but nonetheless). John sighed and faced forward, as Sherlock turned the razor on, and he closed his eyes. "Ready."

 

John felt the right side of his lip being sheared, the now-smooth skin feeling cold and unprotected. There was no going back now, but he straightened up and let Sherlock continue.

 

John's shoulder bumped against something solid jutting out beneath Sherlock's belly, and he paused.

 

And with the last stroke of the razor, John grinned.


End file.
